“That must be really great, though,” I say. “Knowing about your family’s history. Where you came from.” I take a sip of my coffee. “I’m adopted, so…”
“You don’t know anything?”
“I could take a DNA test, of course, but I don’t want my birth family to track me down. Once you take the test, that information is out there, even if you check the privacy box. Who knows if it’s actually secure? This girl I know found her birth mother that way, and I … don’t want that. Maybe I’ll do it someday, but right now, I’m not sure what the benefit of knowing my ethnic makeup would be. It wouldn’t change anything. Or mean anything. The stories and culture I grew up with, that’s what feels real to me. My mom—my mom mom—is, was, Greek American. My yia-yia and pappoús immigrated to America after World War Two on this creaky ship. Went through Ellis Island. My dad’s family came on the Mayflower, if you can believe it.”
“Boston’s so weird.”
“Right?”
“So are you into Greek culture and stuff?”
“Yes. I love it. It’s strange, though. Ever since my parents died, all of this has been—it’s been bothering me.”
Ben leans his elbows on the counter, and, I must admit, I like this decreased radius of separation.
“How so?” he asks.
“I grew up being told I’m a Karalis woman, and we went to Greece and everyone treated me like I’m one of them and I can make avgolemono … I grew up with it all; it’s my family’s culture, so I think it’s mine, too, but I don’t know—is that appropriation? It’s all very … confusing. And I don’t like being confused. I wish there were some way to determine the right answer.”
“An identity formula?”
“Yes. EXACTLY.”
I grip my cup. The words are spilling out of me, and I can’t stop them because there is something else about my parents being gone that has been bothering me, something I haven’t even been able to tell myself.
“Everyone’s talking about race and culture all the time,” I say. “Owning what you are, who you are. Shouting it from the rooftops. More and more, it’s all about your heritage. But what does that mean for someone like me? I love avgolemono. And My Big Fat Greek Wedding. And, even though I don’t believe in it, I really liked all the evil eyes my yia-yia hung around the house. And I want them to be mine—my culture, a part of me. But they’re not. The problem is, if I got a DNA test and found out I was Norwegian or something, I wouldn’t be that, either. Because blood isn’t culture. I don’t have any connection to Norway at all!”
“You’re American. That’s a culture.” He smiles. “Playing devil’s advocate, by the way. I get what you mean.”
“No, you’re right. I am American. But. American culture is immigrant culture. Everyone has these culturally identifiable last names. These stories about ancestors immigrating. Family recipes and language and all that. Everyone! Only Native Americans don’t have immigration stories, but they have their own stories. Migration stories, obviously. They have tribes. My dad’s family loves talking about the Mayflower and showing us graves in the old cemeteries here—we have Revolutionary War soldiers in the family, Civil War soldiers. There’s this line—of people and stories—that connects everyone in the Winters and Karalis families, and I don’t have any of that.”
“But you do,” he says. “Having Puritan weirdo ancestors and Greek grandparents who came over after World War Two is your family’s story. And you’re part of your family. Ergo, I think all that stuff is yours. Those are your stories. Your culture. I really don’t think people have a right, at least in your situation, to say otherwise. I don’t know, I’m not Greek, so maybe some fully Greek person might not agree, but that’d be pretty harsh.”
Our family—it’s done.
“When I was little, I got a black marker, tried to make my hair like Hannah’s and Mom’s.”
Ben reaches out and tugs on a strand of my chin-length blond bob. “For what it’s worth, I like your hair. And your blue eyes.” He rests his hand, the color of wet sand, next to mine. “Culture, heritage—you’re right, it’s about more than blood. It’s more than a DNA test. So is family. Nate’s my family, even though we don’t share a drop of blood. Know what I mean?”
I nod.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says. “You don’t have to label yourself. I don’t go around being all, I’m Japanese American. I’ve never been to Japan. I’m from Brooklyn. I’m just me. You’re you. Fuck labels and the people who insist on them. If a label society wants to give you is helpful to you, makes you feel connected to the world—gender, race, religion, nationality, whatever—cool. Use it. There can be awesome community there. But if it’s not, if the label makes you smaller inside: Fuck it. My lab partner refuses to share their gender with anyone. They told me that they’ve decided what they are, but it’s no one else’s business. They’re like, Fuck all your assumptions about what or who you think I am if I say I’m male, I’m female, or even nongendered. I’m just me, and that’s all you need to know. Hello, nice to meet you. You feel me?”
I cannot wipe the smile off my face. No one, no one has ever made so much sense to me in my whole life, not even Dad explaining his dark matter quintessence theory.
“Wow, Ben. WOW.”
He laughs. “If there’s one thing meditation has taught me, it’s that there’s a place beyond all that. It’s big and wide, and has no borders or labels or systems. It just is. That’s where I live.”
“I want to live there, too. But not everyone can. Even if they’d like to,” I say. “I mean, you said so yourself: People get weird around you when you say you meditate. About the Asian thing. You still have to deal with that.”
“But not on their terms. That’s my point.” Ben takes my mug and refills it, sets it down in front of me. “Homo sapiens, man.” He sighs. “We complicate the hell out of everything, huh?”
I laugh. “Yeah. But we figured out how to walk on the moon, so we’re not so bad.”
“Facts.”
I wrap my hands around the mug. Mom loved this kind—diner mugs. Thick. Indestructible. It was all we had at home.
“My dad was a meditator.”
I can picture him so clearly, sitting on his cushion in the corner of his office, eyes closed, that slight smile on his face. The sound of the bell when he was finished, pulsing through the whole house.
My eyes prick, and I take a sip of the coffee. It’s good. Bitter. It burns. When I set my mug down, Ben rests his fingers, very lightly, against mine. He doesn’t say anything. Today his nail polish is dark metallic blue.
I am in so much trouble.
I have run his words through my head so many times. What did he mean, exactly? I haven’t seen him since that night Nah collapsed on the kitchen floor, three weeks ago. But we’ve texted, emailed. He likes me. I know he does. Nate certainly teases me enough about it.
I thought I didn’t have time for Zen masters who make me feel like I’m in zero gravity. I need my feet on the ground. But if I stay in Boston, then maybe, when Hannah’s okay and I know for sure I’m staying … maybe I do have time. Later. Not now.